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"If from the earth we came, it was an earth
That bore us as a part of all the things
It breeds and that was lewder than it is.
Our nature is her nature. Hence it comes,
Since by our nature we grow old, earth grows
The same. We parallel the mother's death."
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "Anatomy of Monotony." |
"The lean cats of the arches of the churches,
That's the old world. In the new, all men are priests."
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "Extracts from Addresses to the Academy of Fine Ideas." |
"He tries by a peculiar speech to speak
The peculiar potency of the general,
To compound the imagination's Latin with
The lingua franca et jocundissima."
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "Notes toward a Supreme Fiction." |
"Panache upon panache, his tails deploy
Upward and outward, in green-vented forms,
His tip a drop of water full of storms."
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "The Bird with the Coppery, Keen Claws." |
"She has composed, so long, a self with which to welcome him,
Companion to his self for her, which she imagined,
Two in a deep-founded sheltering, friend and dear friend."
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. The World as Meditation (l. 7-9). . .
Collected Poems [Stevie Smith]. James MacGibbon, ed. (1976) New Directions. |
"The soul, he said, is composed
Of the external world."
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "Anecdote of Men by the Thousand." |
"Foam and cloud are one.
Sultry moon-monsters
Are dissolving."
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "Fabliau of Florida." |
"From this the poem springs: that we live in a place
That is not our own and, much more, not ourselves
And hard it is in spite of blazoned days."
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "Notes toward a Supreme Fiction." |
"Above the forest of the parakeets,
A parakeet of parakeets prevails,
A pip of life amid a mort of tails."
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "The Bird with the Coppery, Keen Claws." |
"Spread outward. Crack the round dome. Break through.
Have liberty not as the air within a grave
Or down a well. Breathe freedom, oh, my native,
In the space of horizons that neither love nor hate."
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "Things of August." |
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Wallace Stevens
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